


White Lines

by wordsliketeeth



Series: Rumors [2]
Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Bathroom Sex, Bullying, Choking, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Hanamiya is a Sadomasochist, Internal Conflict, Kirisaki Daiichi High (Freeform), Lies, Mind Manipulation, Mirror Sex, Obsession, Rough Sex, Stalking, Subdrop, Vaginal Fingering, school sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-12 10:30:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19227349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsliketeeth/pseuds/wordsliketeeth
Summary: "You spend the rest of the day falling in space and chasing the lines of a shadow. It's a cruel obsession and you have no desire to hand yourself over to its preoccupation, but you can't seem to pull yourself back from the haze that outstrips your ability to concentrate." Hanamiya is the last person you want to be thinking about but you can't get him off your mind.





	White Lines

Only a week has passed since Hanamiya spread a rumor about you and Imayoshi so thick that it's become authentic in the eyes of half of your peers. You can't understand how people can be so trusting and gullible to believe someone so notoriously snide and unpleasant. That being said, you could say the same thing about Imayoshi since he's as equitably double-dealing and slippery as Hanamiya is. The only difference is that Imayoshi has never gone out of his way to cause you any harm, physical or otherwise. Moreover, none of Imayoshi's acquaintances have reached out to you to warn you of his wicked ways.

You've managed to stay out of Hanamiya's reach by some miracle, even with having two classes together. You suspect after your previous altercation—the one you're still serving detention for—your professor called attention to the situation while in the company of the other staff members. It's all you can think of that would explain the obligatory seat changes in the periods you share with Hanamiya, and the reason you're distanced as far from each other as the new arrangements will allow. You miss the sun on your face and the support of the wall against your shoulder, but you're not about to complain about not having to feel Hanamiya's gaze drill a hole through your ability to focus.

And you would think that not having Hanamiya be the prime focus of your day would offer comfort and relief, but even without the obtrusive selfishness of his physical presence, you can't seem to push him out of the dark corners of your mind. He's like a dirty drug, running through your bloodstream in spite of wanting to get clean, and the harder you try to rid yourself of him, the stronger the forbidden poison grows.

You try to convince yourself that you weren't thinking about him when you see him waiting for you at your locker. You think about turning around and claiming miscalculation when you show up at your next class with last hour's textbook. However, Hanamiya is staring at you with eyes like black ice and despite every grain of your better judgment, you can't stop your feet from moving in his direction.

“What do you want?” you drawl in an attempt at disinterest.

“I just felt this _imperative_ urgency to check on you, to see how you're doing,” Hanamiya says, his voice carrying the same apathy as your own.

“Well I'm certainly not fucking Imayoshi and I'm here, so obviously I'm doing just fine.” You retrieve your belongings and slam your locker shut with more force than strictly necessary. “Is that it?” you ask, hating how last week's emotions are drawing tight in your chest.

“You don't sound all that convincing. Maybe you should go see the nurse. I'm worried about you, ____.” Hanamiya reaches out and presses the back of his hand against your forehead in a mock attempt to check your temperature.

“Don't touch me,” you snap and shove his hand away from your face. “Whatever it is that you want, I'm not interested. Why don't you go get your kicks somewhere else? I'm not going to give into you and _rumor_ has it that you get bored easily.” You clutch your books against your chest and take a step away from him. “I won't fall prey to your games again, Makoto. I'm done.” You turn around and walk away, half-expecting Hanamiya to stop you but he doesn't. You exhale a sigh of relief but the restlessness that winds itself tight in the low of your gut doesn't correspond with the breath on your lips.

You spend the rest of the day falling in space and chasing the lines of a shadow. It's a cruel obsession and you have no desire to hand yourself over to its preoccupation, but you can't seem to pull yourself back from the haze that outstrips your ability to concentrate.

You text Imayoshi and hope that he makes good of his influence because you need something to sway the negative thoughts turning over to disease inside of your mind. You reach your locker and find that you're as surprised by Hanamiya's absence as you are Imayoshi's immediate response. You check the face of your phone and frown, wishing that Imayoshi had more to offer. You don't know if he has some kind of impending scheme in the works, but his response is either stolid or ambiguous and all you can do is hope it's the latter. To say that things will work themselves out in time is far from the assurance you were seeking.

You make it through the final hour of your classes but not without difficulty. You don't know why today is any more burdensome than the rest. You suppose it's due to the fact that you dealt with Hanamiya directly but admitting that doesn't come easy. You walk the halls with an air of casual simple-mindedness, paying no mind to the idle chatter and the rush of students that pass you by in differing directions. You move on autopilot and stare into the ether, your mind so full of jarring thoughts that the metaphorical pinion and wheel running your boundless rumination has lost its teeth.

“Don't tell me that after one confrontation you've lost your bite,” Hanamiya says, and judging by the sound of his voice, he's right behind you. You think about drawing back your elbow and aiming for a few ribs but you're in no position to call more attention to yourself. As sweet as retaliation seems you side with reason and continue in the direction of your locker— _again_. The ritual of each day is as tiresome as it is inconvenient but it pales in comparison to having to deal with Hanamiya on a daily basis.

“If it's a fight you want, I'll do everything in my power to sidestep conflict for the sole purpose of disappointing you.” You check both sides of your periphery but Hanamiya is hanging too far back for you to distinguish which side of you he's favoring. It makes you feel vulnerable and uneasy but you keep your head held high and fight the urge to hasten down the last stretch of hallway in front of you.

“You're always going to disappoint me—everyone does,” Hanamiya claims, imbuing you with a sense of anger that doesn't quite fit in with the wealth of your emotions. “That doesn't mean that I can't make the best out of what I have. Senpai taught me that.”

“I don't care–” you start, but Hanamiya clamps a hand over your mouth and drags you into a restroom before you can even think to sink your teeth into the flesh silencing the rest of your sentence.

“Looks like we have that in common,” Hanamiya says while shoving you bodily against a long counter lined with sinks. “I don't care what you have to say.” He lowers his hand from your mouth but before you can parse a response, he's fitting his palm against the base of your throat. “If you try to escape or yell for help, I'll devote the rest of our time left in this shit-hole to making your life a living hell.”

You laugh but the sound of it is dry under the pressure of Hanamiya's grip. “How is that any different than what you're doing now?” you ask, your voice straining against the back of your throat.

The tight press of Hanamiya's lips gives into a slanted smile. “Do you honestly think that this is the worst I can do?” He steps forward and needlessly pins you between the solidity of the countertop and the hard resistance of his body. “I'm offended. You should know that it would take very little for me to ruin you. Has Senpai not been filling you in on the details of our past?”

“Imayoshi-san seldom speaks about you,” you tell him, knowing that the honorific coupled with the fact that Hanamiya isn't the nucleus of your every conversation is enough to strike a match against his ego.

As expected, the light in Hanamiya's eyes begins to smolder and his fingers dig into the give of your neck. “You know what I like about you?” he asks, and the question momentarily takes you by surprise. “You're not afraid to keep pushing my buttons even when I can see that you're fully aware of what I'm capable of. I can feel your pulse twitching beneath my fingertips and if I had to guess I'd say that” –Hanamiya presses his opposite hand to the center of your chest– “your heart is racing.”

“That doesn't prove a damn thing,” you retort, gripping the counter at your back until your knuckles turn white with strain.

Hanamiya smiles and sweeps his tongue over the sharp point of a canine. “Then maybe this will,” he says and roughly turns you around to face the large mirror fastened to the wall. He grabs your wrist and tugs your arm in the direction of where he's standing, pinning it against the small of your back. “I've heard people say that there's a fine line between love and hate.”

You glare at Hanamiya's reflection and when he flips up your skirt and fits a hand between your thighs, you struggle to turn yourself back around. “What are you doing? Stop it,” you snap, writhing in Hanamiya's unrelenting grasp. “How are you going to prove anything by harassing me? It's not like this will count toward your sick fantasy if I don't consent. I _won't_ submit to you.”

“If we're going off of fantasy, your dissent would be all that I need, but that's not what this is about. If we're to go off of whether you'll ever submit to me, you already have.” Hanamiya flattens his hand against the center of your panties and drags friction over your sex. A jolt of pleasure chases a shiver up the length of your spine at the point of contact. You try to ignore the sensation but Hanamiya's shifting his hand to press his fingers against the heat pulsing through your clit.

“How so?” you manage, grinding the question between your teeth as you contend with the rush of electricity that's lighting up your veins.

“That should be obvious,” Hanamiya answers, slipping a single digit under the elastic of your panties. The drag of friction and the kiss of skin-on-skin contact makes you visibly shudder but you set your teeth against your tongue to maintain some sense of composure. You stare at your reflection but no matter how hard you try to chase the storm clouds across your eyes, your attention scatters and lands on Hanamiya.

“Do you always get this wet when you think about me?” Hanamiya asks openly, drawing his touch free from the fabric to firmly grind friction against the cotton clinging to your skin.

You open your mouth to denounce him as a liar but you can tell by the look in his eye that's he's prepared for it. Furthermore, to your dismay, you can feel the damp slick of arousal on your panties, catching against your skin with each shift of Hanamiya's fingers. You want to deny him so badly but the evidence is indisputable, marked down in the physical reaches of your adversary's touch. So the only option is to settle because slipping under the restless waters of silence seems far worse than taking a stab in the dark.

“I can't help how my body responds,” you defend, but as soon as the statement leaves your mouth you want to call it back.

“Whatever you need to tell yourself,” Hanamiya says, his voice pouring like liquid and honeyed-sweet.

“Is that how you deal with things, Makoto?” you ask, suddenly instilled with an upsurge of confidence. “Is that how you've come to accept that you like me? Or are you still living in denial?”

Hanamiya doesn't lift his bowed head but he shifts his gaze from somewhere behind your shoulder up to your reflection. “You think that I'm doing this because I like you?” his tone is as dark as the shadows dancing across his eyes and the inky spill of hair grazing the sharp line of his jaw.

You expect the rapier of invective but you're unprepared for the bludgeon of action, and when Hanamiya yanks your panties down to the slight bend in your knees, your blood runs cold. You begin to squirm but Hanamiya digs his sharp fingernails into the inflexibility of bone along the edge of your wrist. The pain is negligible but it's not the sting that forces you to stillness, it's the way Hanamiya's lifting your left leg up and pushing it against the counter. You can hear the threads of your panties popping as the material cuts into your skin, a result of your straining position.

You plant your hands against the countertop and absentmindedly count the inadvertent water droplets that mottle its surface. Hanamiya lifts a foot away from the floor and you can feel the cool touch of leather against the inside of your knee as he drives your panties down to the linoleum tiles with his boot.

“Why _are_ you doing this then?” you finally manage, your voice trembling to match the shake in your knees.

Hanamiya smiles at you in the mirror and the harsh fluorescent lights in the ceiling highlight every sinister pretense hidden in the shape of his features. “You still haven't figured it out yet?” he needles, and you can hear the rustle of clothing and the sound of a zipper coming down over the sound of his voice. “The answer is fairly simple: I want to watch you fall apart. I want you to witness the very moment you succumb to me.”

You exhale a sharp breath of air and try to shift your stance but Hanamiya is quick to hold your leg in place. He takes a step forward and you can feel something solid and warm brush against the curve of your backside. It doesn't take long before you realize what it is but Hanamiya's already sliding two fingers into your sex, effortlessly, purposefully. The sound of your arousal against his skin has heat enveloping your face and turning your skin a full-blooded shade of glowing sanguine. You try to steady your breathing in hopes that Hanamiya doesn't mistake your quickening respiration for pleasure. However, it makes little difference in the way of self-composure because he chooses that moment to thrust his fingers into you roughly, and the sound that escapes your throat is anything but calm.

“I don't want this,” you declare, fumbling through the woods of your ideology and crushing the fundamental principles of precept beneath your tired feet. Your voice sounds weak and even you don't believe the statement for the wavering inflection enlacing your tone.

Hanamiya withdraws his fingers and wipes the slick coating his skin on the soft of your inner thigh. “You know what I find funny? So many people have labeled me a liar but I seldom lie because I don't need to. You, on the other hand, lie all the time.”

“I do not,” you snap defensively, narrowing your eyes in the mirror.

“You just did,” he says with a leer of triumph.

You feel his knuckles against the heat of your apex and you suspend the breath in your lungs like you need to savor the supply. Hanamiya presses the head of his cock against your entrance and you tell yourself that this can't be happening, that he's only trying to convince you of his fearless abandon.

“You say you don't want this” –Hanamiya stares at you in the mirror unblinking, even as he pushes himself past the slight resistance of your body– “but you know damn well that _I'm_ the one doing this to you. This isn't something that you can conceptualize. You're not gifted enough to visualize this as anything but what it is. Yet, you're still wet for me—you're _still_ giving in.” Hanamiya reaches out and returns his fingers to the previous marks he left on your neck. He presses his palm against the base of your throat and forces your head back so you're looking directly at your bilateral reflection. “Look at yourself. Look between your legs.” Hanamiya cants his hips and thrusts into you with something like tenacity. “Look at me,” he orders firmly. He shifts the hand against your throat and digs his fingers into the angle of your jaw. “I'm the one doing this to you. It's my cock inside of you, and it's going to be my name on your lips when I make you come.”

“I hate you,” you say, doing everything in your power to avoid the section of glass he wants you to look at. But it's hard to resist that in which you know you should, so when Hanamiya slams himself home and your knee slides across the countertop, you steal a glimpse at the space between your thighs and watch the length of Hanamiya's cock disappear inside of your body. It's a strange notion, how you're coming together when you feel so far apart—then you start to second guess how distanced you really are because you no longer want to fight what he's doing to you.

You wonder when rejection assumed the form of ratification and when your aversion to him turned into appetence.

Hanamiya wraps an arm around your waist and pins the front of your skirt to your abdomen. His reason for doing so is as clear as the water that slicks your skin but you can't seem to turn a blind eye to his intention—something about the way he's fucking into you makes it nearly impossible to divert your gaze from the mirror. You observe how you open up to him and how your skin moves in time with his thrusts. You note how his cock glistens when he draws back and how he gives it back to you when he sinks deep into your cunt. You get entranced by the motion and when a cramp begins to seize the muscle in your angled leg, all you can do is press a hand to the mirror and push back against Hanamiya's ministrations because you're too entrenched in the way he's making you feel.

“I should have known it wouldn't take long to break you,” Hanamiya says, interpreting your readjustment as a future hindrance. He hooks an arm under your leg and holds you upright, alleviating some of the tension in your limbs. You feel like you're hanging in suspension and when Hanamiya's hand slips back down to your throat you're almost grateful for the balance despite its precarious support.

“I hate you so much,” is your response, loaded and automatic. It doesn't take any effort on your behalf to formulate the reply because Hanamiya's the ammunition to your gun and he's long-since pulled the trigger. He's the car crash and the cyanide and the disease; he's every bad thing that's ever happened to you. He's the saber and the knife and the shrapnel, but in this present moment, your favorite weapon is the look in his eyes.

Hanamiya's lips move like syrup and the smile on his face sends a bolt of electricity through your heart as blue as the light running through your veins. “I don't doubt that,” he says, his voice scraping against your skin as if you've been stung and his words are dripping like blood honey. It's the way he speaks, cloying and nonchalant, with an air of indifference that leaves an indelible impression on your mind. It's infuriating and enthralling at the same time, a spellbinding amalgamation of articulation and modulation.

And that's only part of the equation but you refuse to acknowledge his innate air of confidence and the way he turns fucking into some kind of superlative art-form. It's animal magnetism, among other things that you don't dare take into consideration for the integrity of your sanity.

Hanamiya squeezes your throat as he presses his mouth to the shell of your ear. “I will make you mine. I will make you just like me.” There's sweat on his skin now, catching in the lights above, and the usual pale of his complexion has blossomed into an uneven flush. You try to pin your focus on the dark bruises forming along the line of your throat but Hanamiya's renouncing his steady rhythm for a cadency far more desultory in its motion. He fucks you hard and deep and fast, the urgency of his oscillation reaching an ultimate high when you lock eyes in the mirror.

“I'll make you a deal,” Hanamiya purrs, his breathing even despite the way he's expending his energy. “If you let yourself go for me, I'll let you come.”

You open your mouth to respond but Hanamiya doesn't relax his grip and you quickly realize that you've lost the ability to speak. The room begins to blur and you can feel moisture beading along the lines of your lashes. You blink in an attempt to clear the fog and the salt from your vision but it's a temporary solution. At that moment, however, you steal a glimpse at your reflection and notice how your lips have started to turn blue.

You reach up instinctively and claw at the back of Hanamiya's hand in an attempt to draw attention to the deprivation of oxygen in your lungs. Your heart begins to pound wildly in your chest as panic beats itself out across your skin. You marvel at Hanamiya's blatant disregard of your alarm and wonder if the dark swamping the corners of your vision will soon drown you in obsidian as pitch-black as the hair that grazes your shoulder.

“Just a little bit more,” Hanamiya presses and lifts his hips to grind himself against the heat of your skin. His mouth falls slack and you think his eyes flutter shut but you can't be sure for the dark that's washing out your ability to perceive small details. Then he's tugging himself free from the tight grip of your body and spilling himself to completion along your inner thighs. The viscous fluid is cool against your fevered flesh and as it begins to spills down the length of your legs, Hanamiya finally releases the choking hold he has on your throat.

You immediately cough yourself into breathing and clutch at the counter's shelf for support. Your head is throbbing and tears are spilling down your cheeks in rivulets. You begin to struggle with gravity but Hanamiya yanks you away from the row of sinks and spins you around to face him with so much force you don't know how you find the strength to remain standing. He kicks apart your feet and before you can properly register what he's doing, his fingers are working against your clit with deft precision.

You can't parse the exact reason for it, but Hanamiya's treatment is causing the wealth of dolor and the profusion of self-doubt in your chest to break open and bleed across your heart. You feel like you're turning your back on your beliefs, allowing Hanamiya to strip you of your convictions and peel them out of your soul. You tremble uncontrollably and cling to the front of Hanamiya's shirt for support, your breath cutting into tired pants and quiet whimpers.

Your knees begin to crumble under the weight of emotional perception, so steeped in unmitigated feeling that the framework of your epicenter is crashing down around you. The tears that streak your cheeks are no longer for lack of oxygen but for the rush of endorphins and adrenaline that flood your body like an angry sea.

“St...sto...” you stammer, clawing weakly at Hanamiya's chest in an effort to get him to cease his ministrations.

“Look at you,” Hanamiya says, finally drawing back his hand to give you much-needed respite. “You're a mess.” He presses his index and middle fingers to the underside of your jaw and tilts your head back. Heeding the unspoken command takes more effort than it should and the position is wholly reliant on the support of Hanamiya's long digits. You emit a dry sob and try to blink the boy in front of you into clarity, but your eyes are tired and sore and the best you can manage is the blurry outline of a charcoal sketch.

“What...” _did you do to me,_ you want to ask but you can't put volume to the rest of the question. Every nerve ending in your body is red-hot, every muscle overtaxed, every thread of your discretion undone—you can't recall a time in your life when you've been so utterly exhausted.

“I did exactly what I told you I was going to do,” Hanamiya replies as if he's capable of reading your mind. “I told you, I seldom lie.” He rotates his wrist and cups your chin in his hand, his fingers cold against your skin when they dig into your jaw. He takes a single step forward and crushes his lips against your own in a bruising kiss that you feel long after he draws away.

He's almost to the door when he says: “I'll see you around.” He doesn't spare a final glance over his shoulder or offer any supplementary speech, and if you had the strength you'd use his trusting arrogance to your advantage. However, you barely have the stamina to keep yourself upright, and by the time you manage the painless task of smoothing the wrinkles out of your skirt, Hanamiya is long gone.

You wave a shaky hand in front of a faucet and soak your panties until they're saturated. Then you stumble over to the nearest wall and slide down to the floor, the sure ground offering a sense of remedial comfort. You press your head against the cool tile at your back and mindlessly set to the task of washing the stain of Hanamiya's dogged exploitation from your skin.

It's far more satisfying that it should be—you just can't come up with a reason why.

* * *

Weeks go by without a word from Hanamiya but you have no doubt that it's all a part of his cruel and perverted game. Notwithstanding his willful avoidance, you don't go longer than an hour without him infecting you in one way or another.

He's the shadow at night, knocking at your door when you're trying to sleep. He's the monster beneath your bed, constantly watching you with the salacious eyes of a voyeur—and when he dares to speak to you, his mouth overflows with obscenities that turn to sweat on your skin. He's an animal on the run, scratching at your floorboards to be let in. He's the moon that spills down your walls and the supernova that pulls you beneath the lunar sway.

His face is in your head and his voice is in your lungs, and even at night, when you close your eyes, you can't help but think of him. He's the desire in your veins and the heat upon your skin, and he is right where you belong.

No matter how hard you try to burn away his image, you always end up lying in the ashes of his illustration. He's a spiderweb in the stars and the harder you try to pull away, the more entangled you become in the labyrinth of his lacework. He's a cult leader and you've accepted a shot of the Holy Ghost and been led to believe that everything is fine while he's crucified you on his bed of lies.

He's everything you never wanted him to be—so why do you want him so badly?

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


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